Stella Nova

DreamSpace One

To Fly A Proud Ship

By the crew of the USS Essex

Chapter One

Captain Stephen Walters stretched, taking a brief respite from coding the final cadet's exam into the computer. He had programmed a rather unique encounter, one that Starfleet had kept quiet for the past three years. As he did it, he could still feel a sympathetic twinge from the bone graft in his left leg.

He sat alone in his moderately-sized office, the layout of the room befitting the position of Head of the Strategic and Tactical Department at Starfleet Academy. Virtually all holders of this posting were Starfleet veterans, although Walters was far from being considered 'over the hill' yet. His tall frame gave the impression of a man far younger than his actual forty-eight years, although the greying beard did tend to dispel that notion somewhat.

Walters' reputation was well-known in the grounds of the renowned institution. There were those who knew him as a strict and unyielding teacher, although grudgingly admitted that his tactical brilliance was matched only by a very select few. Those who graduated his classes were usually quickly placed on starship duty, unless they requested otherwise. Which was not very often.

There was a sudden chime from the door. He saved the program and cleared the screen, in case it was one of his students. He'd been caught like that before.

"Enter!" he said gruffly, slightly annoyed at this interruption. The sliding doors opened, revealing a rather nervous-looking young Ensign.

"Well, Mister Davis, are Starfleet Operations agreeing with you lately?" Walters asked the young man, quickly recognizing him. Davis gulped. It was barely a year since he had graduated from Officers' School, and his recollections of Walters' temperament had not changed in the slightest.

"I... I... Starfleet sent me with this, sir," he stammered, knowing why they had picked him to take this to Walters in the first place. Reminiscing about his old teachers had turned out to be a bad idea.

"Well?" Walters demanded, anxious to get back to his programming. Davis held up a sealed envelope, unusual by the fact that this was generally used for one purpose only.

Walters took in a breath, although Davis didn't notice, he just wordlessly passed the envelope to the Captain. Walters paused for an instant, realizing he'd only ever received one of these, over twelve years ago. He broke the seal, and opened the old-style letter.

"Gordon Bennett!" he exclaimed. Davis smiled slyly to himself, seeing Walters lower his guard for a moment.

"Thank you, Mister Davis. Dismissed!" Walters abruptly said, and Davis quietly walked out of the room, still grinning. He finally had a good story to tell about his old instructor.

Walters slowly scanned the written details, and just about fell off his chair when he saw the name 'USS Essex'. His mind automatically went back to the last few conscious memories he had of his former ship, giving that final command to fire before blacking out. The haunting image of two Klingon D-7F battle-cruisers firing their disruptors on the view-screen was burned into his memory. He immediately accessed the communication network, and put in a call to Admiral Morrow, but he discovered the Admiral was unavailable until the date and time listed on the letter. Unavailable, indeed!

He quickly ended the programming session, and strode out of the door, feeling that strange, swirling feeling in his stomach that he hadn't felt for three years, and never thought he would feel again.

Walters sat down in the waiting area of Admiral's office, glad that he had been able to stay on until the graduation of this year's class, thinking to himself with a wry smile how close some of those graduates had come to failing upon encountering his last simulation exercise.

The yeoman then indicated that the Admiral was ready to receive him. He stood and entered the large office. Admiral Morrow was engrossed over his desk-mounted console, his back to the large, clear window, which showed a spectacular view of the harbour. Outside, it was a bright, sunny day, and the sunlight streaming inside almost made the Admiral into a silhouette.

"Come in, Stephen," he said, looking up from the display, ending the program he was studying. "Please, sit down."

"Admiral," Walters said as he walked closer. "How on Earth do you except me to take command of the Essex again? I mean, you must have read the final report on her status."

Morrow looked at him, wondering whether Walters could bring himself back into the role of a starship commander. He'd argued long and hard at Starfleet for putting this man back into command, knowing that his ability to form and mould a diverse group of individuals into a top-of-the-line crew was what was needed for this specific assignment.

"Are you saying you don't want command of a ship again, Captain?" he asked, crossing his arms.

"Certainly not, sir," Walters replied as he sat down. "I just didn't think it was viable to reactivate the Essex. She'd need a major re-fit to be worth anything to Starfleet." Morrow quickly glanced at his terminal, and silently breathed a sigh of relief. It was off. He had thought Walters might have gotten a glance in a reflection at what was previously displayed.

"The Essex is currently being positioned in Star-base One, Dock number Five," Morrow said. He drew a long breath, as if reluctant to continue. "It comes down to this, Stephen. I've convinced Starfleet that you're able to take this command, but I don't think I could do it again. This is your last opportunity to command a ship of your own." Walters sat back, and thought for a moment. He had expected a long convalescence period between commands, but never thought that his assignment to Starfleet Academy was permanent.

"I gather I'll be in charge of a training ship," he surmised. Given his record as an instructor, it was a logical assumption.

"You're one of the best Tactical Instructors we've ever had at the Academy," Morrow replied. "Having you in command of your own ship would be of immense practical advantage."

"No active duty?" Walters said, a slight note of sorrow in his voice. Morrow took a moment to reply, as if contemplating.

"Not at this time," he stated, simply.

"Give me a day, Admiral. I'll inspect the Essex myself, and get back to you at 1800 hours, tomorrow," Walters responded. There wasn't much else he could do. He could either refuse the offer and go straight back to the Academy, or accept. Looking the ship over would be his final decider, seeing exactly what condition she was in. That would at least get him into space, a great step up from sitting behind a desk programming computer SIMs.

"Very well, Captain. You have provisional Security Clearance Beta Four, subject to your assuming command." There were several such security status ratings in Starfleet, the Alpha-Delta system merely one.

"Beta Four, sir?" Walters queried, surprised at such a high clearance.

"Four," Morrow confirmed, "But that's all I'm allowed to tell you, at this stage." Walters suddenly felt the twinge in his leg again.

"Permission to inspect the Essex, Admiral," he said, coming to attention.

"Granted, but don't expect a great deal. She's been floating around Mars for a long time, contrary to your report, I realize..."

Walters left, curious as to what he would find at Star-base One.

Captain Walters materialized in a beam of shimmering blue light on Star-base One, in permanent Earth orbit. He had prepared himself for the devastation he knew existed on the Essex, as he had received the data reports while in Starfleet Medical. He strode across to the viewing window of the docking circle, where he could see an oblique aft view of the ship in Bay Five.

His heart sank. He had not seen the Essex since he was carried off her, relying on the reports of his surviving senior officers to produce his own. It was one thing to submit a report, it was another to see the exterior of his former ship, ravaged and broken before his eyes.

The superstructure looked basically intact, and there were no pieces missing from what he could see: a battered Constitution class starship, numerous ugly black and brown marks of battle damage on her formerly glistening white hull. None of her running lights were on, and the only indication she was at least partially active was the faint illumination emanating from several windows.

He went across to the transfer station, requesting the Duty Officer for the day. A Lieutenant Clarke opened and activated a travel pod, to take the Captain directly to the Main Bridge. The docking adaptors for this type of docking system had been fitted on the Essex before she had been damaged.

Clarke closed the airlock, and maneuvered the small pod over to the crippled ship. As they passed the port nacelle, she noticed the Captain draw a short intake of breath, as he saw the horrific damage caused to the engine. She quickly directed the pod to the bridge docking port, the only one which had complete environment established.

"Lock secured, pressure equalized," the computer announced, then the doors slid aside with a hiss. Walters stepped forward with some trepidation, it had been three years since he had been on this ship, a ship he had spent over a decade on, and was more at home here than any other place he could imagine.

Clarke accompanied him, as per regulations, and noticed him limping as he walked through the door for a moment, until he stiffened and made his way onto the bridge. He walked directly to the railing, trying to keep his emotions under control.

Despite what many people think, scent plays a vital role in memory, and Walters didn't realize that the various stale odours in the air were triggering most of the images in his mind. There were too many to sort out at once, so he lent on the rail and tried to calm himself.

"Sir, let me check environmental systems before we go any further," Lt. Clarke piped up, as she quietly moved past him to the science station.

"It's all right T'Sa... Clarke, I'm fully aware of the damage to this ship." He moved across to where his old chair was. It was the one part of the entire deck that was still apparently functional. As he sank down into the chair, more memories of his time aboard ship came flooding back, but the recollection of exactly what had happened after he gave that final command still eluded him. He had not dared look at the Starfleet summary. He knew the result, but was afraid to look at the direct consequences of this decision.

"My God," Clarke said as she surveyed the damage to the various consoles. "What happened to this ship? Why is Starfleet even bothering to reactivate the superstructure?"

"I can tell you exactly what happened, Mister," Walters stoicly replied, looking straight at the deactivated view-screen. "Two hundred and eleven people died on this ship. Under my command."

"Yessir," Clarke said, a great feeling of understanding and empathy coming over her. "I'll wait for you in the travel pod, sir," she demurred, appreciating what the Captain must be going through at the moment.

As the doors closed behind her, Walters swivelled the chair around to where Lt. Commander T'Sara used to sit at the Science station. He remembered how Jim Kirk had once said how valuable a Vulcan was on that position, and he had found that the dark-eyed Vulcan woman had proven him right. She had been one of the lucky ones, now at the Science Academy on her home planet.

Glancing over to the comms console, he remembered the last message he sent to Starfleet, moments before the console erupted with a flash, killing Lieutenant Saward.

Turning to the Engineering panels, he thought carefully of the valiant effort that Commander Dalton and his team had maintained, apparently to the end, in providing power for the last critical phaser burst at the two Klingon ships.

It was with a heavy heart that he looked at what remained of the forward console, where in the initial attack, a power feedback had blown all primary helm and navigation circuits, fatally wounding Lieutenant Martin and Ensign Black, and spraying the bridge with metallic and plastic shrapnel. He himself had been injured again from that explosion.

He stood up, realizing that the only way to honour the dead was to take up Morrow's offer. Training vessel or not, she would still be a part of Starfleet. But then he noticed another twinge in his repaired leg. It was eerie, almost like a premonition. Something wasn't right about all this.

He walked across the turbo alcove, knowing the next time he walked through this doorway, the Essex would again be his to command. Lieutenant Clarke stood to attention as he entered, and then swiftly disengaged the travel pod from the stricken ship, offering to take him on a full tour around the exterior.

"No, thank you, Lieutenant," Walters responded. "I have an important appointment at Starfleet Command." He was not waiting for tomorrow. He would see the Admiral now.

The orange-red sun glared bleakly down on the desolate landscape. A slim, dark-haired woman in loose dust-coloured robes sat cross-legged, alone on the mesa, high above the plain. She did not move a muscle, her eyes focused on the shard of pottery she held in her hands, seeming to penetrate deeply into its very existence. Abruptly she stood, the shard falling from limp fingers.

"Why?" she called softly into the endless waste. "Why must I return?"

"Because you must," said the quiet voice of her mentor.

She turned. He stood there where none had been a moment before and raised his hand, fingers spread in the gesture of greeting and farewell.

"Live long and prosper, T'Sara," he said. "Your absence will be a hindrance to our research, no doubt, but you have learned much, and the many shall profit by it."

"Peace and long life," she replied. Together they stood in silence for many a long minute, absorbing the peace and the rough beauty of the dusky red hills.

The lights shone bright in his eyes, their heat drawing a fine sweat onto his brow.

"Now you see it!" he exclaimed, and with an intricate wave of his hands, he pulled the cloth away from the stand revealing... "And now you don't!" ...nothing.

The audience broke into applause, as he bowed and the curtain closed across the stage.

Backstage after the curtain calls, Lucy bounded up to him as he was packing his equipment away.

"Oh, Dafyd, you were great!" she exclaimed, wrinkling her nose at him.

"Thanks..." he managed, before she rushed away.

"I'm really sorry that you have to leave, I mean, your orders haven't come through so I think it's a bit unfair that they put you on standby. Oh well, now don't forget we've got a farewell party for you this evening and we expect you there." And she was off, congratulating the other members of the troupe on their fine performances.

Dafyd smiled after her. Lucy rarely stopped, either talking or moving, but she was the mainstay of the entire troupe.

He had felt at home here during his leave. After the Delta Regonis crisis and his promotion, he was given leave on Earth for two months, and essentially told to get lost until he was called.

Indeed, he had gotten lost, more or less on purpose. After lostness had lost its attraction, he's looked for something else to do, and had found 'The Santini Flying Troupe', a group of actors, musicians, and artistes touring the planet entertaining people. They were based loosely on a circus with stage acts and the like, travelling in a series of hover cars and vans, which allowed them to travel in whatever country they were in.

They had wanted a magician or such like, and so Dafyd had offered his services for the remainder of his leave. He had refined his techniques a great deal, meeting with general acclaim from audiences and colleagues alike.

And now he was preparing to leave.

The door to the van was open, a beam of light shafting across the chilly ground. Dafyd stood staring out at the stars, looking for a particular one. A moving one.

Lucy peeked out the door. "Are you coming in, Dafyd?" she asked.

"Yes, I'm just looking for Star-base One," he replied. "It should be coming over the horizon soon...." his voice trailed off.

"And then you'll have to leave," she sighed, sharing his sentiment. "Come back inside, in the warm," she shivered.

Dafyd turned and re-entered the warmth of the interior, taking the drink offered to him.

"A toast, to Dafyd Connor," shouted Mike Garn, the strong-man. "The best magician I've ever seen... no, sorry, there was one in Paris who was just a smidgeon better. Did I ever tell you about him...?"

"YES, MIKE," chorused the entire troupe.

"Oh, well never mind then."

Dafyd grinned at Mike, and raised his glass of bubbly to all the others, then to his lips. Abruptly there was a high-pitched warble, and he snorted slightly into his drink, sending a fine spray into the air.

"Oops," he smiled, wiping his mouth, then reached into his pocket to retrieve his communicator. Excusing himself, he flipped it open and stepped out into the cool night air, ignoring the sudden quiet behind him. In the trailer, they could hear him talking into the small device, although the replying voice was too low to be understood. Then the door opened again, and Dafyd glanced in.

"Hey, come outside for a minute," he smiled. They all slowly filed out, their breaths misting in the night air. Dafyd directed them into a wide semi-circle, as there came a few anticipatory murmurs.

"Okay, now," he said into his communicator.

The shimmering, glittering sparkle of a transporter beam appeared in the middle of the group. The falling glitters lit their faces while the phase harmonics made them wince.

"Oh, wow," whispered Lucy. Generally, people on planets didn't use transporters because of the huge energy requirements, so relatively few people had seen one in action. When they did, it was a treat.

The glow faded, leaving a young Starfleet officer standing in front of them, with another uniform draped over his arm. "Commander Connor?" he asked, just as Dafyd stepped forward.

"Thank you, Ensign," he said, taking the uniform. "I'll be back in a minute," he called over his shoulder, as he walked off to his caravan.

The troupe stood around uncomfortably, some staring at the somewhat bewildered Ensign, a symbol of the force taking their friend away.

"Oh!" gasped Lucy. "I almost forgot!" then she dashed away to her caravan. Several others, following her lead, also made quick trips to their own places, and returned a few minutes later, carrying an odd assortment of items.

Some of them gasped slightly as they saw Dafyd step out of his caravan, now dressed in uniform, looking once again like the quintessential Starfleet officer. He walked, almost regrettably, to the beam-in point, and set his suitcase down.

He then turned to the waiting group.

"Well, I could make a heroic speech about setting off into the starry void," he said, "but I'm only going in to orbit." There were a few smiles at this. "I could weep a little, saying how sorry I am to go. But I really am glad to go, in a way. There's really not a lot that I can say, except... it's been fun."

There was a catch in his voice as he stepped forward. The group gathered around, giving handshakes, kisses, and small gifts. A wand, a bunch of plastic flowers, a small furry purple monkey.

The final farewells said, he stepped back and pulled out his communicator once more. Flipping it open, he turned back to face his friends, then raised his arms to the sky and shouted, "All ye gods of heaven, take me home to my ship of the stars!"

There was a slightly startled silence.

"Pardon, sir?" came from the communicator, the crisp voice breaking his reverie.

Dafyd lowered his hands, cleared his throat, and muttered "Never mind," into the microphone.

"And now," he continued, "my final disappearing trick, as the winds of adventure whisk me away." He bowed lowed and whispered "Energize," into his communicator. The transporter took him halfway up out of his bow, then he, his case, and the rather mystified Ensign dissolved into nothingness.

The troupe were left standing, and as one turned their heads to the bright stars, and watched the glistening point of Star-base One travel across the sky.

The disorientation of transporting faded, and Dafyd continued his upwards movement, staggering slightly as gravity reasserted itself. The Ensign beside him put out a steadying hand.

"Are you all right, sir?" the transporter technician behind the control panel asked.

"Oh, yes... I'm fine," Dafyd replied, straightening up and smoothing down his uniform. "Thank you."

As they stepped down from the beaming pads, the tech came forward and placed a small golden Starfleet insignia on Dafyd's jacket.

"What's this?" he asked.

"It's your station comm badge, sir," the tech answered. "It allows communication without the need for comm panels, and you can also talk to the star-base computer with it."

"Hmm, that's new," Dafyd replied. "Oh well, thanks for the transport. See you later," and he walked out the doors and into the corridor.

As the doors swished shut, the Ensign turned to the tech and exclaimed, "Who the hell was that!?"

"Didn't you know?" the tech replied. "That's Dafyd Connor, 'The Magician'."

Out in the corridor, Dafyd stopped by the wall.

"Computer," he said, looking down at the badge.

"Acknowledged," it said. The female voice was warm and inviting.

"They've improved that, too," he muttered to himself.

"Input unclear."

"Never mind. Computer, Commander Dafyd Connor, service number 823-0472B reporting to Star-base One as ordered."

"Acknowledged, Commander Connor. Temporary quarters have been provided on Level Fifty-Three, room 5320. Proceed to turbolift fifteen, at the end of the corridor."

"Temporary?" he wondered. "Maybe I'll be assigned a ship sooner than I thought." Hopeful, he started off down the corridor.

Twenty minutes later, he emerged onto the observation deck of the space-dock and stopped, watching the ships glistening in the spotlights and tractor fields. He had gone to his quarters and found a message from Admiral Morrow waiting, so he had dropped his luggage off and proceeded here.

The nearest ship was an Enterprise class, with repairs going on around its warp nacelles. It was the USS Lexington, fresh from an entanglement with a micro black hole that had almost imploded its warp field. Quick thinking and quick action by the Science Officer and Chief Engineer was all that stopped her from becoming a shower of particles and a brief burst of energy in subspace.

Dafyd moved away from the doorway and started strolling around the lounge. An Ambassador class frigate equipped with the new trans-warp engines was being fussed into dock by a swarm of worker bees. Next to it, a Sagan class research vessel was offloading an exceedingly valuable cargo of Vargian Oil, untransportable because of its dilithium based structure. There were hopes it could be developed into a new power source or force field generator. A bit further around the massive chamber was the saucer section of a Constitution Class starship, the rest hidden behind the central column.

It must be here for a re-fit to Enterprise Class, he thought.

Ahead of him was the small lounge where he had been told he would meet Captain Walters who would explain his new assignment. There was a tall man standing there looking out of the window at the Constitution class ship across the bay. As Dafyd got closer he saw that the man was indeed Captain Walters.

"Captain, Commander Dafyd Connor reporting," he said as he approached. Walters turned around and smiled slightly as Dafyd came to attention.

"Walk with me, Mister Connor," he said, and strode across the lounge to a turbolift array. Dafyd raised his eyebrows in surprise at the Captain's abruptness, then followed, walking quickly to keep up with his long stride.

"Lounge Area Five," said the Captain when they were in the lift. The car started off with a whine and he turned to Dafyd. "What I'm about to show you might not like very much, but I'd like you to think about it before you say anything."

Before Dafyd could reply to this, the lift stopped and Walters stepped out, obscuring the view of the bay. Dafyd followed him out and saw they were about a third around the bay from where they were, opposite the Constitution class ship. He had a clear view of her now, and quickly revised his judgement from re-fit down to scrapping. Along with other damage, the massive hole in the port warp engine was clearly unrepairable. He turned his attention from the ship to Captain Walters, who had begun to speak, looking at the ship.

"She was a good ship." he started, somewhat wistfully, "My last command. The Klingons and treachery within produced the results you see now. I was reassigned to Starfleet Academy to teach, and she just floated in parking orbit in a maintenance dock. It's been nearly three years now, and Starfleet Command want to reactivate her and for me to command again."

Dafyd almost gasped in surprise, but his diplomatic training kicked in, and he kept his face impassive as his thoughts ran away. They want to what!? Good grief, I hadn't realized the economy drive had gone that far!

"I was surprised that the economy drive had gone so far," Walters continued, "But then the Admiral explained what they wanted her for. Starfleet needs another training ship. Something to give the new generation of Starfleet cadets a different approach in mechanics of running a ship."

Dafyd's mind focussed towards one thought. He's going to ask me to be his First Officer.

"So, now I am asking you to be my First Officer on the Essex." Dafyd mentally did a double-take. Then another realization dawned on him. First Officer on board a training vessel? 'Instructor' was a prestigious title anywhere in Starfleet, but it was hardly an exciting prospect. Besides, he had no teaching experience!

"Uhh - to be honest, sir..." he began, but Walters interrupted.

"Just between you and me, Commander," he said, a thoughtful look on his face, "I don't think that's the entire reason." Connor stared at him. "Starfleet is being quite tight-lipped about this ship. Repairing a ship in this state just to train cadets on? That doesn't sound right to me."

Dafyd thought for a second, and found himself agreeing. The brass were definitely up to something, but what?

"Well, you'll probably want to think about it before making a decision, so you can get hold of me over the..."

"Wait, sir," said Dafyd, and turned to the window. He stared out at the Essex, aware of the Captain's eyes boring into the back of his neck. Although his first reaction had been one of shock and unwillingness to be involved, the idea had been percolating through his mind and was gaining momentum. The challenge of fixing up the ship was an interesting one, and the idea of something else in the works appealed to his dramatic side. He turned to the waiting Captain.

"I accept," he said.

Captain Walters stared for a moment, as if evaluating him, then broke into a grin. "Welcome aboard," he said, stepping forward and extended his hand. Dafyd reached out and shook it firmly. "I'm going on board tomorrow at 0900 hours," Walters continued, starting towards the turbolift again. "Care to join me?"

"Of course, sir," Connor replied. He watched the Captain as he entered the lift, and as the doors closed, leaving him alone in the lounge. Then he glanced back at the Essex, floating like a crippled swan. Yes, you'll fly again, he thought. A graceful bird in the stars.

Lt. Commander Geoffrey Richards stood in the deserted observation lounge, looking across at the ship in the bay in front of him. She was a Constitution Class, one of the famous ships which were at the forefront of space exploration twenty years ago. Now, as if reflected in this ship, it seemed that those times were gone forever.

The USS Essex sat in free space, still graceful as all starships are, but her surface was marred enough to make him think the magic had gone out of her. He had a clear view of the port warp engine, and the wicked scar that ran for nearly a third of its length. What kind of damage that had done inside, he almost didn't want to know.

"She's been there 'bout three weeks," came a voice behind him. He twisted around, and saw an old sanitation tech, his floor cleaner in his hands. "D'you mind?" he asked, gesturing toward where Richards stood.

"Hmm? Oh! No, of course not," Geoff said, stepping away several paces so the grey-bearded man could cleanse the area he was standing in. "Three weeks?" he asked, as the cleaning device started up with a soft whine.

"S'right," the tech replied, continuing his job. "They towed 'er back in. I've 'ad a whole team of my boys on 'er, getting 'er ready for you. You are part of 'er new crew, aren't you?"

"Yep. I'm the new Chief Engineer," Geoff replied.

"Ahh," the tech said, stopping the machine. "You've got a bit of a job ahead of you then, young feller."

"One I'm not looking forward to. I don't even know why Starfleet are reactivating this old ship," he said, defeatedly.

"Lemme tell you something, son," the tech continued, moving towards the exit. "I was around when this ship was first launched. Made you feel right, seein' somethin' like that. This 'ere's a ship, that 'elped write the 'istory of Starfleet. Near broke my 'eart, it did, to see 'er in this state. Now it's up to you, son." He smiled. "Make us proud again."

Geoff turned back toward the Essex. When he glanced back toward the exit, the elderly tech had gone.

He smiled slightly, and again looked at his new ship. Maybe this wasn't such a bad assignment after all.

The bridge was dark, only barely illuminated by the faint stand-by lights above each console. The bridge doors swished opened to reveal a dark-haired Vulcan woman silhouetted against the bright turbolift interior. Reflections glinted off the Commander's insignia on her shoulder. She stepped forward, and satisfied that the bridge was empty, walked unerringly to the station she thought of as her own. This was where she belonged. Not on Vulcan, studying the psionic arts. Not even in her husband's arms. Here. On this starship called Essex.

The ship's M-4 computer had survived the final battle, but had suffered considerable damage as a result of power feedback through many of its peripheral connections. These would have to be replaced, and she was attempting to check them now. Abruptly she straightened and turned. She knew she was alone. And yet not alone. Memories came to life before her eyes.

The bridge filled with red light. Captain Walters stood up in the centre seat as the two Klingon D7-F cruisers swooped into view on the main view-screen. He turned towards Communications and snapped out a silent order. The red-shirted officer tapped at his console and shook his head. Obviously the Klingons weren't answering. The Captain faced the main view-screen. T'Sara saw him mouth the word "Shields!" The officers at helm and navigation responded as twin bursts of red flame struck out from the glowing maw of each Klingon vessel. The vision trembled as the Essex' shields took the impact. Again the Captain commanded "Fire!" and white lances of phased energy shot out at the Klingon vessels. To no avail. Yet more red fire scorched the Essex and this time the shields barely took the impact. T'Sara did not need to turn to see the sensor images of five Starfleet vessels closing at high warp on her console. Her own image called out to the Captain, who turned to Communications snapping out a request for assistance. The officer had barely time to comply when another disruptor burst shook the Essex. Blue fire flamed from the Communications board and the young human fell back, dead. Walters barked another order. Sparks flew as the young officers at the forward console re-routed power to allow one final phaser burst that might just give them time...

As the ghostly images faded T'Sara slumped back into her chair. She had not thought that such a thing as a star-ship's bridge could be so intensely imprinted with the images of its past. But it was the past, and the future would surely overwrite those memories with more welcome visions.

"Impressions?" Walters asked as Connor followed him into the turbolift.

"A lot of work, sir. It's a little hard without even knowing who is on the crew," he replied, as the Captain turned the activation handle and ordered the lift to the bridge. "Is there a reconstruction plan?"

"Not as far as I'm aware," Walters answered. He turned and began to pace around the lift, deep in thought. Connor merely stood back to give him room. "Do you recall when Enterprise was upgraded, just before the V'Ger Encounter?"

Connor mentally wound his thoughts back. That was long ago for him, just after he gained his First Lieutenant's commission. The V'Ger Encounter was one of the great events in the Federation's history. Enterprise had been on that assignment after being re-fitted, which had resulted in such a radical change from the original ship design it had been designated a whole new class of starship. Since then, even that design had been improved upon.

"Yessir," he answered, wondering where the Captain was headed in his thinking.

"Could the Essex be used as the framework for the next improvement in starship concepts?"

"There's not much left but the superstructure, sir," Connor answered. Until we find out for sure, anything is possible."

Their speculating was interrupted by the turbolift halting, and the doors shusshing aside. Stepping onto the bridge, they both immediately noticed another 'Fleet officer, attentively sitting at the science station library terminal, her slender fingers skillfully tapping the command keys. She turned towards them, and Connor glimpsed a surprised look of recognition suddenly cross Captain Walters' face.

"T'Sara," he smiled, walking forward. The Vulcan woman stood to greet him, and Connor discreetly glanced her up and down. She was slightly taller that he was, her curly, dark brown hair falling just below her shoulders. Her eyes were an unusual green-brown colour, sparkling with intellect under her characteristic Vulcanoid eyebrows.

"Captain," she replied, nodding her head just slightly. "Commander T'Sara reporting for duty as assigned."

"I had no idea you would be returning to the Essex, Commander," Walters said, keeping the emotion out of his voice, disguising the fact he was very glad to see her again.

"I was needed, Captain," she replied. "I was on Vulcan, and was notified that the ship was about to be recommissioned. Knowing the current condition of the Essex, I surmised that a major re-fit was necessary before she could resume operational status."

"Logical," Walters answered.

"Of course, sir," the Vulcan responded. "Would you agree, Commander?" she asked of Connor, who was patiently waiting for them to finish.

"From what I have seen so far, I would," he answered.

"Commander T'Sara," Walters began, "This is Commander Dafyd Connor, our First Officer. Connor, our Chief Science Officer, T'Sara."

Connor stepped forward and raised his right hand in the Vulcan salute. "Peace and long life, Commander," he said. He was used to dealing with Vulcans, and knew enough to keep the formalities to a minimum. T'Sara returned the gesture, nodded again, and turned back to her console.

"There is currently not enough power retained in the emergency batteries to bring the main computer fully on-line, Captain," she said, reporting what she had found. Walters and Connor exchanged a glance. Business as usual. "It would be possible to commit all power available, but this would compromise internal life-support. I would recommend a microwave energy link be established with the Star-base until ship's power is restored."

"We were just discussing that earlier," Walters said. "After inspecting what remained of the main intermix systems."

"As I recall, the damage was extensive," she replied.

"I would say very extensive, Commander," Connor broke in. "How long until the power drain becomes critical?" T'Sara replied without even glancing at her console.

"Without precise usage data, I cannot give a fully accurate estimate. However, depending on current requirement factors, I surmise that we have less than five hours and twenty-two minutes remaining."

"Oh?" questioned Connor. "And how many seconds?"

This time T'Sara glanced at her panel.

"Five hours, twenty one minutes, and thirty five seconds... mark," she replied. Connor looked momentarily embarrassed. He hadn't expected her to take him literally.

"Uh, thank you," he replied, glancing at the Captain who was looking down at him with a wry expression.

"Maybe you had better go and see to that microwave link, Mister Connor," he said.

"Yes, sir, I'll do that," Connor replied. To T'Sara he said, "I look forward to working with you in the future."

"And I with you," she replied, levelly gazing at him.

With that Connor turned tail and scuttled into the turbolift. After the doors had closed behind him, he sagged against the wall and stared at the ceiling. Phew. I must remember not to crack jokes at Vulcans. It's completely wasted on them.

"State name, rank, and position," the computer said.

"Richards, Lieutenant-Commander Geoffrey, Chief Engineer, USS Essex," Richards said to the door panel.

"Approved," the speaker replied. "You may enter." With that, the airlock door slid aside. Richards stepped through, and the door swooshed shut behind him. He walked up to the crewman on 'door duty'.

"Permission to come aboard?"

"Granted, sir. Welcome aboard. Captain Walters wants to see you on the bridge right away." Richards nodded.

"Our new captain doesn't waste time, does he?"

"No, sir."

Continuing through the entry lobby and onto G deck, Geoff noted that the Essex still had her old square-shaped corridors. He had only been aboard a Constitution class ship once, back in the Academy, when they had been shown the old USS Achernar, before she was upgraded to Enterprise class. The simplicity of those old designs astounded most of them, but Geoff had found them to be a refreshing look into the way starships once were. All of his older instructors had said there was a lot to gain by looking back as well as forward, and now he understood why a little more.

He entered the first turbolift he came to. "Bridge," he ordered it. Nothing happened. He repeated the word. Still nothing. He was about to consider pulling apart the internal panelling when he noticed the handle in the side of the lift. Lightly chiding himself for forgetting, he grasped the handle and rotated it. "Bridge," he said again, and the lift began to move upwards with a soft hum.

He sighed. Looking back was fine, but only if you could remember how it worked.

The door swished open, and then he was on the bridge. The bridge configuration aboard the Essex was the octagonal station arrangement, with black panels set into the walls at an angle. Several uniformed technicians were at work in various places, but the atmosphere was strangely quiet.

There were two other crew members on the bridge. One was a very tall, lean man, with the distinction of command about him. The other was a dark-haired woman, sitting at the Science Console, in discussion with the man, who stood next to her nodding slightly. Richards thought he hadn't made a sound, and then the woman turned. She raised one slanted eyebrow. He tried to keep his face impassive as he noted the tips of her ears protruding through her long curly hair and realized she was a Vulcan. He'd better be careful around her.

"Mister Richards?" the man asked, turning towards him.

"Yes, sir. Reporting as ordered," Geoff replied. This could only be Captain Walters.

The man nodded in response, and turned back to the Vulcan woman at the science station. "Mister Richards, this is Commander T'Sara, our Science Department Head, and the ship's Second Officer. Commander T'Sara, Lieutenant-Commander Geoffrey Richards, our new Chief Engineer."

"Commander," she said, in a very unemotional tone, after looking him up and down. Geoff suddenly got the uneasy feeling that she was somehow looking straight into his mind. Vulcans always seemed to be reading your mind, even when they weren't.

"Sir," he replied, bowing his head slightly, carefully maintaining eye contact with her. "You're not gonna psyche me out, lady," he thought.

"Carry on, Mister T'Sara," Walters said. "Walk with me, Mister Richards," he continued, striding towards the turbolift. Geoff swivelled and quickly followed.

Walters twisted the activation handle, and ordered the lift to proceed to Engineering. "You have a long job ahead of you, Mister."

"Yes, sir, I thought I might," Geoff replied.

"This ship has been sitting in orbit around Mars for the past two and a half years," Walters continued. "Now, all of a sudden, Starfleet wants her back in service. Even I do not know why."

"Do you know how she got damaged so badly, sir?" Richards asked. Walters suddenly looked a little forlorn, hearing this.

"A combination of Orion sabotage and two Klingon D-7F cruisers," he answered. "The actual details are still classified."

"Who was in command?"

"I was."

"Oh, bloody hell," thought the engineer. Talk about the wrong thing to ask!

There was one crew member on duty on the Engineering Deck, minding the barely active systems. He stood up and came to attention as the two officers entered, but Walters just waved him to carry on. He led Richards over to the main control panels, and gestured towards them. Geoff tapped a few keys, and frowned slightly at the results. He glanced over at the rest of the status displays. The warp engines were completely off line. He couldn't even run a diagnostic on them. Ship's power was coming from the emergency batteries, as auxiliary power wasn't available. He began to dig a little deeper. The Captain stood away from the panels, patiently waiting.

"Recommendations, Mister Richards?" Walters asked.

"Well... the first thing I'm going to do, sir, is get the fusion generators working." Geoff answered. "It doesn't look as if they're too badly damaged, but we'll see once I get started. Then I'm going to go over the entire ship, deck by deck, and check everything out. That will probably take... about two weeks, if the rest of the Engineering department arrives on time."

"Good," Walters replied, looking a little more pleased. "There's a Department Head meeting in fifteen days. I'll expect your report then."

"Very good, sir."

"And, Commander Richards?"

"Sir?"

"Welcome aboard," Walters said, offering his hand. Geoff took it, and they firmly shook hands.

"Carry on, mister."

"Aye, sir."

The Captain then turned, and walked out of Engineering. Geoff moved to the centre of the huge room, and looked around, once. Then he strode to an equipment locker and pulled out a diagnostic tricorder. "Humph. Type 1-D," he thought, reading the model number. "Oh well, it's old, but it'll do." With that, he began to make his way to the fusion reactors. He had a lot of work to do.

Commander Connor deftly entered his newly-memorized entry code into the door panel, and the heavy doors slid aside. This was the auxiliary power generation room, which contained three multi-gigawatt fusion reactors, the ship's backup power source. Connor was looking for the new Chief Engineer, Lt. Commander Richards. The Captain said that he was working on these generators, in an attempt to have the ship generate its own power, rather rely on energy beamed from the Star-base. The emergency batteries had run out seven hours ago.

The room was apparently deserted. "Hello!" he called, walking over to the operation panels, instinctively noting that all three furnaces were inactive.

"In here," a voice responded, with a fairly hollow reverberation, from inside the reactor room. Connor walked inside through the open radiation-proof doorway and up to Reactor Two, skirting its safety barriers, until he came upon the maintenance hatch.

Scattered around the floor next to the open panel was a variety of tools, magnetic bolt calipers, optical path testers, engineering tricorders and the like, and an assorted array of internal module packages and optical circuitry boards. It was easy to tell that most of them were ruined.

There was also a pair of legs protruding from the open hatch. Someone was lying almost completely inside the narrow duct, and the faint sounds of low-band contact path soldering were coming from within.

"I'm looking for the Chief Engineer," Connor smiled, without identifying himself. He couldn't resist this opportunity.

"You've got him," the voice replied. "Could you pass me that FRP opti-board over there?" A finger blindly pointed in about the right direction. Connor quickly found the asked-for part and passed it to the hand. "Thanks," the voice responded, then drew it inside. There was a gentle click as the board was snapped into place, followed by the soldering resuming.

"Not exactly up to specs, is it?"

"Too right it's not," the voice responded. "The actual reactor itself is okay, but most of the control and injection circuitry has been wasted. Pass me that data link tester?"

"How did that happen?" Connor asked, as he passed the small instrument to the hand again. The voice humphed.

"More than likely they had a power feed backlash when the conduits were hit. The safety overrides stopped the worst of it, but this part of the generators got fried." Connor thought about that for a second, and found himself agreeing. This guy knew what he was talking about. "Now, who did you say you were again?"

"Dafyd Connor... First Officer," Connor said, waiting for the reaction. The link testers gentle whine immediately stopped, followed by a pause of about two seconds, and an wide-eyed, fair-haired man in his middle thirties nimbly slid out of the duct onto his feet. He had a honest, open face, and a moustache with a barely-detectable amount of red colouring to it.

"Commander," he quickly said, realizing the joke was on him. Connor couldn't stop himself from smiling.

"At ease, Mister Richards," he said, hand extended. Richards resignedly accepted it, still feeling like he had been caught out. At least this guy had a sense of humour, which would hopefully balance out the Captain's business-like disposition.

"Are you nearly finished?" Connor asked, after they shook hands.

"That was the last replacement part, sir," Richards replied, retrieving the link tester and closing the maintenance hatch. "The fuel supplies are connected, the EPS conduits are fixed... and we're all ready," he said, walking over to the operational area. He closed the radiation doors as soon as Connor was through, and ran a diagnostic program on the reactor. In ten seconds, the program finished, reporting the reactor was ready. Richards and Connor swapped a grin, then Richards began to activate the startup sequence.

Dafyd looked at the repaired reactor through the transparent window, as the light inside the sealed chamber turned a dull orange. "Caution. Fusion reactor initiation procedure has been activated," the computer advised. "Chamber area is now secured."

Silently, they both watched the displays as the pressure built inside the reactor, and a low vibration began to reverberate around them. Then critical phase was reached, and the reactor burst into life, the power output meters coming active. The output quickly stabilized, steady at four million watts of usable energy. The controls were indicating no fluctuation in the power frequency, and the nuclear reaction was stable and confined.

Suddenly the panel began to beep.

"Dammit!" Richards exclaimed. The link conduits were overloading.

"I'll take it," Connor said, quickly moving to the EPS control panels. He quickly tuned down the power flow, as the computer had set it too high for the sudden burst of energy at reactor startup.

"Thanks, sir," Richards said, noting that the First Officer had known exactly what to do. His panel stopped making excited sounds, and the related status displays turned green again.

Starting a fusion reactor is only a minor thing, but it was really the first step in the rebirth of a starship.

"Well done, Mister Richards," Connor smiled. "You've just put the first breath of life back into the Essex."

"I certainly hope so, sir," the engineer replied, as he connected the reactor links to the ship's internal power network. "Okay. That's enough for life-support, internal gravity..." he said as he directed the energy around, "...enough to bring the main computer fully on-line... and a little left over to recharge the emergency batteries." Then he opened a channel to main engineering.

"Yes, sir," came the response of the single crew member on duty.

"Fusion reactor number two is feeding into the main grid. Contact the star-base and get them to disconnect their power link," he ordered.

"Aye, sir."

"Has anyone else arrived down there yet?" he asked.

"Yessir, two diagnostic engineers. They're both looking at the impulse drive at the moment."

"Send one of them up here to keep an eye on the reactor. It's working all right, but I don't want it running for any great length of time without supervision. I'll be on the bridge."

"Aye, sir," came the reply, then the channel closed.

"I gather you have a procedure for looking over the ship," Connor said as they both left the reactor room and headed for the nearest turbolift.

"Just a bare outline, sir," Richards replied. "Start from the top and work down. Obeying the K.I.S.S. rule."

"Kiss rule?" Connor asked, his forehead wrinkling with puzzlement.

"'Keep It Simple, Stupid'," the engineer explained.

That made the First Officer laugh out loud.

Lt. Commander Richards walked slowly down the slightly dusty corridor of G Deck, his diagnostic tricorder slung over his shoulder. His attention was split between making notes on a portable PADD unit, and looking where he was going. Three days so far, and he was only down to G Deck. Well, at least some more staff for the Engineering department were beginning to arrive. He had the ones not occupied with monitoring going over the outer portions of the saucer section, and had even assigned a few to start at the bottom of the secondary hull and work their way up.

He stopped outside the sick-bay. As far as he knew, none of the medical staff had even arrived yet, let alone begun to get the place operational.

The doors almost seemed reluctant to slide aside. He peered in. None of the lights were on. Geoff stepped inside and tapped the activation panel, and the room filled with illumination. Or at least half filled; most of the overhead lights weren't working. He quickly noted that the lights were item number one on the sick-bay 'fix-it' list.

Despite being unused for such a long period, Richards thought sick-bay looked remarkably clean. He took off the tricorder, and began to scan for structural anomalies in the supports. There was a little metal fatigue and neutron decay, but they were basically all right. He made his way to the medical computer, and began to re-engage the programming. In response, the diagnostic displays over the bio-beds came alive, and the room began to hum, slightly. The resident startup program in the computer reported several large memory chunks were unavailable, and several more were of a questionable state. Second note; replace medical computer memory modules. Then, the sick-bay doors slid aside again.

"Jeeze, what a mess!" he heard a female voice say. Turning around, Richards saw a honey-haired woman standing in the doorway, looking around with obvious disdain. She had on a Starfleet uniform, and was holding a standard-issue carry bag.

"Excuse me?" Geoff asked.

"Ah," she said, noticing him. She strode forwards and put out her hand. "Hi, I'm Mary MacCaull, the new CMO," she smiled, introducing herself.

"Geoff Richards, Chief Engineer," he replied, clasping her hand.

"So," she began, walking around the room and casually tossing her bag onto the nearest bio-bed, "This is my new sick-bay."

"Such as it is," Geoff said. "Actually, I thought it was in pretty good shape."

"Hmm," Mary grinned, her hands on her hips. "You've never run a sick-bay, have you?"

"Good point," he conceded, watching as the doctor deftly tapped the buttons on the medical computer console, and as she humphed in response.

"You must have a lot to do, if this is anything to go by," she said, turning back to him.

"Don't worry," he replied, walking over to stand beside her. "The computers are all going to be upgraded - or at least I hope they are."

"You hope they are?" MacCaull said, her eyes widening slightly.

"Well, if I get my way, they will be. But, it's unusual - I haven't had any replacement authorizations come back."

"Are you thinking they never will?"

"They'd better. If high command assume this ship can just be patched up and sent out again, they've got another think coming."

"That bad, huh?" MacCaull replied, wandering over to one of the storage cabinets. She pulled out a medical tricorder, and turned it on. She waved it in Richards' direction, then grinned at what the display indicated.

"Either this thing needs its parameters reset, or you've turned into an Andorian," she chuckled. Geoff shook his head and laughed as well, after first checking his head for antennae.

"Well, Doctor," he said, "If you'll excuse me, I've got fourteen more decks to go over."

"Of course," Mary said, as they shook hands again. "See you around the ship, Mister Richards."

"Count on it, Doctor." He saved his smile until he was back in the corridor, and the door was closed behind him.

"So, that's 'Mad Doc Mac'," he thought, then continued down the corridor. Back in sick-bay, Doctor MacCaull was also smiling.

"So, he's the engineer that likes rewriting the drink patterns," she reflected to herself. It was a well-known fact in Starfleet that reputations sometimes got around.

She turned back to the equipment locker, and gave the rest of the equipment a quick evaluation. None of it was damaged, but it was quite a few revisions behind current medical issue, and whoever had packed it away should be shot, or at the very least given a swift kick. Half the gear was on top of each other, and several of the units had been left on, their sarium krellide power cells long since drained.

She was picking up the tricorder jumble when she heard the doors slide open, and in walked a slim young woman, who inquisitively looked around the room before spotting her.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, seeing there was someone already here. "Commander," she said, straightening up. MacCaull just waved the title away.

"Doctor," she corrected. "Doctor Mary MacCaull, CMO." She quickly looked the new arrival over. She was slender and dark-haired, wearing the green medical colours on her Starfleet uniform. A nurse, hopefully. She would need one to help straighten this mess out.

"Lieutenant JG Verena Garn, assigned Xenopsychologist," the newcomer smiled, introducing herself.

"Well, it's nice to know Starfleet have the personnel priorities right," MacCaull sighed, turfing the pile of tricorders onto the nearest bed, and momentarily frowning at the puff of dust which was thrown into the air.

"Excuse me?" Garn questioned, her brow wrinkling with puzzlement. On her previous assignment, her immediate superior had been incredibly stiff-minded, despite her best efforts to soften him up. She was accustomed to a rigid command structure, and this woman looked as if she was anything but a strict Department Head.

"Never mind. I hope you don't mind getting your hands grubby," MacCaull said, walking around the open doorway to the operating room, beckoning Verena to pursue. "Sheesh," she commented, seeing that the mess was no better in here.

"No, no, I'm used to getting dirty," Garn replied as she followed. "I had to help my father a lot back at the family plantation on Carlyle."

Then the outer door of sick-bay swished open, and a male voice called out, "Hello, anybody home!?"

"Nobody here but us mice," yelled back MacCaull.

"Ah, traps would seem to be the order of the day then," came the voice as the man it belonged to rounded the corner. MacCaull recognized him immediately.

"You must be Commander Connor," she said extending her hand.

"And you must be Doctor MacCaull," he replied, shaking her hand firmly. He turned to Verena and extended his hand to her as well.

"And you are...?" he queried.

"Uh... Doctor Verena Garn, Xenopsychologist," she answered, staring up at him. "...sir." So this was the First Officer. He had a definite command presence, and an infectious smile.

"Pleased to meet you," he replied, "Now, I'm looking for Chief Engineer Richards. Have you seen him?"

"You just missed him. He just left to see, and I quote, 'fourteen more decks,' unquote," MacCaull said.

"Thanks. It was nice meeting you both," Connor replied. "I'll no doubt see you both around the ship."

"Yes, we'll see you around too," MacCaull called after him, then when the doors had whooshed closed, added "Mister Magician."

Reputations do indeed get around in Starfleet.

This was the first gathering of the Essex' new senior officers in one place. It was being held in the main Briefing Room on Deck Four. Walters first heard the reports from the Heads of both Helm and Communications, which were little more than details of their respective consoles. Having nowhere to go and no active comm system besides single channel to the Star-base, that was all they could provide. He was saving up the major details for last.

The Chief Helmsman was a sandy-haired young Terran male by the name of Adam Clemance, who delivered his report in a forthright, self assured manner. This was between stealing admiring glances at the Acting Chief of Communications, a tall Andorian woman with strikingly lovely features. Lieutenant JG R'mashii also gave her report in a crisp, professional fashion, despite the fact she didn't have that much to report on either. As she finished, the Captain could sense that she wanted something. Then he dismissed the thought.

"Doctor?" he asked, turning to MacCaull.

"At the moment, Captain, the Medical section is barely operative," MacCaull replied. "The sick-bay is full of outdated equipment, but it does work. The medical database is practically useless, thanks to the medical computer being full of blown circuitry. I have currently have four nurses, and two other doctors, one of whom is our xenopsychologist. And that's my report."

"Is that all?" Commander Connor asked, as he was expecting a bit more than that.

"I could rave on for half an hour, if you like," the CMO dryly replied. "But I figured that 'short and to the point' is what you wanted."

"Quite," said Walters, just as dryly. "Commander T'Sara, what is the status of the Science department?" The Vulcan calmly looked up at him.

"I have personally inspected the entirety of the science laboratories, Captain," she replied. "Approximately eighty-seven percent of the equipment is unservicable. Apart from specially preserved samples, all chemical, botanical, and biological supplies have perished. Furthermore, I have taken an inventory of the tricorders, and found them to be in the same state as the Doctor's medical equipment - outdated and unpowered.

"And the main computer?"

"Our M-4C Logic System is running at a maximum capacity of seventeen percent. There is extensive damage to both the primary processor core and the storage areas. I have assigned the ship's Librarian to catalogue the remaining stored data, but this is an considerable task due to the limited usage available, and will take approximately thirty-eight hours to complete."

Walters looked down at the table and rubbed his forehead. He hadn't known that the damage was that bad. The computer virtually ran the entire ship. Practically every function was dependent on it.

"Mister Richards, your report on the Engineering Sections," Commander Connor said, seeing the Captain react to the last report. He couldn't imagine what Walters was going through, and so he kept the meeting going.

Lt. Commander Richards sighed, slid a data-card into the table slot, and pressed the activate button. His was going to be the longest.

"Frankly, sir, this ship is in bad shape," he began, rather obviously. Captain Walters looked at him, interest and concern on his face, and on the rest of the new Essex Department Heads. Richards loaded and ran his demonstration program, and a side schematic of the ship appeared on the triple-sided viewer. A good deal of the diagram was highlighted in red. "Warp drive is totally inoperative. The port nacelle has taken a direct disruptor hit, disabling its intermix system and warp coils. It's really a miracle it didn't explode. Not only that, when the Essex was moth-balled all the anti-matter was removed."

"Have you examined the coils, Mister Richards?" said Commander T'Sara, in her Vulcan lilt.

"Yes, Ma'am," he replied, using the ancient honorific. "I even went EVA to look at the exterior. There's a hole big enough to climb through in the engine. Whoever hit that nacelle couldn't have done more damage if they tried."

"Estimated repair time?" asked Walters.

"Sorry, sir. That engine is practically beyond repair. I could try to fix it, but it's an FWF-1B, fifteen years old. It'd still work, but it would never be the same. And then there's this." He sat back down, and opened the square black container he had brought in. The entire top half of the box hinged back, revealing a semi-transparent hexagonal-shaped crystal, one end of it totally shattered and blackened. A slight murmur rose from the people seated. "This is the crystal out of the starboard engine," he said, picking it up. "I put it through a sub-molecular scanner just to be sure. The only thing it's good for now is a paperweight."

"What about our structural integrity?" asked Commander Connor.

"Quite good, sir," Richards replied, returning the ruined piece of dilithium to its case. "Except for the warp nacelle pylons. The warp engines are barely being held on, and someone's made some very rushed repairs to some of the internal support struts."

"Both pylons were hit?"

"Nossir. From the location and patterns of the damage, it was definitely sabotage." Captain Walters breathed out, hearing this. His new engineer was right on the mark. That was the particular occurrence which forced him to give up command of this ship, and it was not something he enjoyed remembering.

"There's also a few bad impact points in the primary hull, but the superstructure is basically very sound," Richards continued.

"Impulse power?" Connor asked again.

"Operational," the engineer said. "But I'm leaving it inactive. Nearly a third of the components have to be replaced, and the others a damn good servicing. If we need to move, quarter impulse is all we could do."

"What about the tactical systems?"

"We can forget about shields one, two and six," came the reply. "The grid linkages have been burned, and almost every other component is beyond its recommended life. Several of the phasers banks have been cannibalized, and the coolant has been removed from the ones that weren't. Both torpedo tubes probably could fire... but then again, there are no photorps left on board, so it really makes no difference."

"So we're basically weaponless and defenseless as well," the Captain said.

"Yes, sir. The only thing we could do if we were attacked would be to open up a comm channel and swear at them." This remark brought a slight murmur of laughter from most of the seated crew members. The Captain was one of the ones who did not laugh.

"Levity aside, Mister Richards, do you have any specific recommendations?"

"Specifics? No, sir," he replied. "This ship is in need of major repair work, and that sort of thing takes time, money, and a lot of good planning. If you want me to make a start..."

"No, that won't be necessary," Walters interrupted. He stood up. "Thank you all for your information. Dismissed." He had a call to make, as there were several important answers he wanted from Admiral Morrow.

"I'm beginning to wonder why we've all been assigned to this ship, sir," Walters said, looking at the screen in front of him. "There's a lot of potential in my new Department Heads, but virtually none of them are rated as instructors. What is going on?" Admiral Morrow clasped his hands in front of him.

"You're there because I needed a crew on that ship, Captain. I thought you would be glad to get back aboard the Essex." Walters sighed.

"Yes, sir, I am. But I've just been made completely aware of the extent of the damage. I don't think she can be easily converted to training duties, in fact, I'm not sure you've told me the entire truth." There, I've said it, he thought.

Morrow silently cursed to himself. He hadn't wanted Walters to know this early, but now it seemed he had no choice.

"Let me put it this way. I've been approached by several individuals within Starfleet, who, shall we say, have a great amount of interest in the direction that the Federation is going. We need a few more surprises up our sleeve."

"Surprises?" Walters questioned, a mental alarm going off in his head. "What are you saying?"

"As of this moment, the Essex has an Alpha-Five level Command Seal upon it," Morrow said, plainly and clearly. Walters nearly flinched in response. That was Captain's Only priority, reserved for some of Starfleet's most covert projects. It also meant the Intelligence Division was somehow involved.

"Admiral, I need more than that," he said.

"Not even over a secured channel," Morrow replied, carrying on in his serious tone. "Report to me tomorrow at 2000 hours. Out," and the screen blanked as the channel abruptly closed.

Walters lent back in his chair, and thought the brief conversation over. Command was in one of its mysterious moods again, not giving the full story away. Cloak and dagger work was not what he had joined Starfleet for, but it was always present in one form or another. He reluctantly began thinking about the incident which had nearly cost him his life several years ago, when he had last been in command of the Essex. If only Intelligence had been on the ball, then those Orions wouldn't have had the chance to plant nearly-undetectable altritium detonators in several key positions all over his ship. Quick action by the security department had resulted in the locating and disarmament of the main charges, but the ship still ended up partially crippled, and was nearly finished off by two Klingon battle-cruisers. Skillful shield deployment and frantic impulse maneuvering had enabled the ship to survive the encounter, although barely, before help arrived in the form of three Loknar class frigates and two Miranda class starships.

Walters stood up and forced himself to think towards the future, not back to the past. The ship had a second chance, and he, for one, was determined not to let past mistakes happen again, ever.

End of Chapter One

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